To Survive
by Gollum's Fish
Summary: COMPLETE! While traversing Caradhras, Legolas and Gimli get seperated form the main group. Can they survive the mountain's rage? More to the point, can they survive each other?
1. Chapter One: Of Elves and Maiar

**Hello, all! Yes, it's another chapter one – I'm punching them out at the moment. No idea about why the Plot Bunny God's given me so many bunnies to shoot with the rifle of inspiration, but, seeing as He has, I'm firing and reloading as much as I can before I go down to Devon in a week cheers with glee at going to her favourite corner of the UK. **

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters herein portrayed, yadda yadda yadda...

Summary: While traversing Caradhras, Legolas and Gimli get separated from the main group when Legolas' attempt to stop Gimli falling over the edge of the narrow pathway fails. Can they survive the rage of the mountain? More to the point, can they survive each other's company? No slash, don't do slash, no Ocs or anything like that. Possibly A/U – than again, what fan fiction isn't an A/U?

* * *

To Survive  
  
_We are all different, which makes us all the same._ Tatamkhulu Afrika 

Chapter One: Of Elves and Maiar  
  
'Why did the Valar send me here in an old man's body?' Gandalf questioned no-one in particular as he lowered himself stiffly onto a flat boulder, teeth gritted against the protesting ache his limbs subjected him to. Caradhras still remained unconquered by the Fellowship, looming over them with an ominous presence and casting her shadow over them, a shroud of shaded cover.

Legolas stopped, observing the wizard with his head cocked to the side, keen eyes analysing the bent figure. He was attuned to the feelings of others about him, and so was perfectly aware that the wizard toiled on this journey up the mountain. He knew that the cold – though it did not touch the Elf himself – goaded at the others through their mortal flesh, despite the fact that they never uttered a complaint about it to each other. Something that he admired...

'I'm sure they did it for a purpose, Mithrandir,' The Elf responded as he leapt effortlessly onto a boulder and then alighted its partner with total ease.

'Yes, Thranduilion: more likely than not so that you could mock me on this cursed trek with your boundless energy and youth, while I trundle on as a hapless old man!'

'Come now, Mithrandir – I am a mere Elf, whereas _you_ are one of the Maiar, with more power in your little finger than I shall ever attain in all my millennia; surely that is of some consolation to you.'

Gandalf frowned heavily at that observation. 'If the power is so very great, Legolas Greenleaf, then why is an Elf perpetually young and a Maiar incessantly decrepit with age?'

Legolas mused over this for a time, now balanced atop a jut of stone that protruded from the mountainside some twenty feet above the heads of the rest of the Fellowship.

'Do not ask such questions of _me_, Mithrandir – you were the one sent to settle the queries of this world, not I.'

Gandalf simply shook his head to himself at this, drawing out his pipe and stuffing it with weed. 'Elves...'

Though it had not been declared, the Fellowship knew that it was time for a rest, and none of them – save, perhaps, Legolas – held any complaint about it. Their limbs were heavy with the strain of gaining on the path up the mountain, the constant battle that they fought with the uneven gradient showing in their faces.

Legolas analysed the surrounding area - or, at least, what he could see of it past the slopes of the mountainside. Nothing presented itself to his keen eyes, nor did his ears pick up on anything untoward. _Simply a peaceful day_...

He took himself down from his observational stand, feet hardly making a sound as they placed themselves confidently and speedily on the rock. He made his way over to where Sam stood. The Hobbit was caressing the face of Bill, the aging pony's eyes closing in the animal's relaxed state. Legolas smiled.

'He likes you.'

Sam started, fixing his surprised eyes upon the Elf.

'Oh, it's you, Mister Legolas. You gave me a fright – I didn't hear you coming.'

'Sorry, Sam – I have that effect on people sometimes ... ask Strider and he'll tell you.'

Sam raised his brows at that. 'You can creep up on Strider?'

'Oh yes; it is not an easy task, but it's doable – though he's loath to tell anyone.' Legolas laid his own hand on Bill's neck, smoothing the short hair gently, his pale skin being thrown into contrast with the animal's coat of rich chestnut.

'Legolas-' Sam began, then stopped.

'Yes?'

The Hobbit hesitated, glancing nervously at the Elf, clearly thinking over whether what he wished to say were wise. He had, after all, little knowledge and experience with Elves, and Legolas knew that the small being was awed by him and slightly intimidated. Because of this, Legolas always tried to be gentle and placid near him, just to gain the Hobbit's confidence a little. Finally, Sam blurted out his query, faster than an arrow leaving the string...

'Erm - what's it like to live forever? I mean – Mister Bilbo always used to tell me stories about the Elves when I was a lad, but I never met one until I came on this journey, and I thought that you might be fairly old – meaning no disrespect, you understand, Mister Legolas,' he hastily added.

Sam was surprised when Legolas actually laughed at his question.

'Do not worry, Sam, you are not being disrespectful. Now, my age...' he mused for a time, trying to count the many, many years he had spent on this earth. 'You must understand, Sam, that we do not celebrate birthdays like mortals do: there are simply too many of them. There is, really, only one that we count as meriting recognition – I believe it is the same for you – our coming of age. _My_ coming of age was at one thousand, eight hundred and twenty, which was-' he did another rapid calculation '-one thousand, two hundred and five years ago.'

'So you're three thousand and twenty-six?'

Legolas chuckled. 'Are you trying to age me?' he chided softly. 'No, I'm three thousand and twenty-_five_.'

Sam blinked, his facial expression conveying that he found it difficult to grasp such a large timescale. Finally he turned back to Legolas. 'But you look so _young_!'

'He _is_ young.'

The pair turned to see Aragorn trudging his way up the slope to where they stood, a twinkle lighting his eyes. 'Were he a human, he would be no more than twenty-one – that, as far as I am concerned, is a youth.'

Legolas fixed Aragorn with a withering look that caused Sam to shy slightly, but against which Aragorn stood tall and grinned, totally impervious to such a glare.

'My profuse apologies if I am incorrect, Aragorn, but I did not hear anyone invite you into this conversation. And, seeing as there's only two of us in it, I do believe that I would have noticed.'

'Well, I just decided that you needed someone to tell Sam the truth about your age.'

'I never lied about it.'

'Ah, but you never told him that it is young so far as your people go either, did you? Which – from listening in on your conversation – is misleading. Because – were you a man – one-thousand, eight-hundred and twenty is the same as being twelve and-a-half.'

Sam looked from one to the other. He was quite amused by this exchange, yet he dared not laugh or even smile; Strider held a triumphant glimmer in his eye, whereas the Elven prince was glowering somewhat murderously at the other.

'Anyway,' Aragorn continued, not even slightly phased by the daggers being glared at him, 'I am here on more important business than annoying you, mellon nín, as entertaining as it is.'

'Oh? And what would that be?' Legolas' voice was silky smooth. Dangerous, in Sam's opinion.

'Gandalf bid me to tell you two that "we are continuing with the journey and for those two to get a move on"', to say it in his exact words.'

As Legolas passed Aragorn by, Sam distinctly heard him make a brief one- sided exchange with the Ranger in Sindarin. Aragorn's face flushed, all mirth totally dissipating from it in a flash and crossing over to Legolas' countenance instead. From the little Sam knew of the language, he was able to distinguish the words "beer", "girl" and "naked". He decided that he did not wish to know what the rest of the words had been, and he took up Bill's lead rein.


	2. Chapter Two: Changes

**Hello, all! Yes, 'tis me, after rather a prolonged absense - sorry about that one, I've been on holiday in Devon. Great place. Strongly suggest you all go there. Packed with inspiration; I've got a good three chapters of this to write up!**

**Anyway, I wish to offer my thanks to all of you who reviewed, and all of you who have read, actually. And I also wish to say that I'm removing _Assassin's Quest_ and resubmitting it under a new name: _Assassin's Gift_. This is simply due to the fact that there is a book that I am incredibly fond of named _Assassin's Quest_ (the third part of Robin Hobb's Farseer trilogy). I feel uncomfortable using the same title... Oh, and the next chapter of that will be up soon, so bear with me...**

Chapter Two: Changes

The wind was trying its very best to throw them from the mountain, that seemed plain enough to the company as they toiled through the snow. But what was _not_ so clear to Legolas was the nature of this tempest. He could smell storms days before they happened, and his senses had simply conveyed _nothing_ of this one to him at all, which worried him. Greatly.

_Damned Elf! _Gimli fumed to himself as Legolas walked lightly past him atop the snow, through which himself and the rest of the Fellowship was forced to trudge through, freezing cold and wet, not to mention tired. This whole scenario sapped their strength right from their muscles, and it angered Gimli to see the Elf striding with apparent ease over the white substance that was for him a road, and the others a tormenter. The Elf looked completely comfortable, the furious weather leaving him utterly unperturbed, almost as though he walked through a summer meadow.

'Why is it,' the Dwarf shouted to Aragorn in front of him after Legolas passed them by, 'that the Elf can totter along as he is, and we have to endure _this_? I hardly see it as being fair that he can do as he will like a-'

'-Legolas is the eyes and ears of the Fellowship, Gimli,' Aragorn cut in, not wishing to hear any more said against his friend. 'It is necessary for him to have free movement in order to be totally efficient as a lookout.'

'Pah! Just because he is an _Elf_ does not make him superior to _me_!'

Aragorn sighed. _Here we go again_, he thought with annoyance. _The Dwarves are better than Elves argument._

Legolas had come back down the line, having overheard the debate that Gimli was trying to stage with Aragorn. He knew perfectly well that his friend would not indulge in such a dispute, as Aragorn always sat on the passive fence that he favoured when it came to the racial discussion of the age-old Dwarves and Elves argument. But _he_ was more than happy to come and defend his race – and himself.

'My eyes are keen enough – I would love to see the _Elf_ navigate his way through a mine in the pitch black with no light. Actually, I can see perfectly well in this blizzard-'

'-Why would I have any desire to pass down into one of your rat holes, may I ask?'

Gimli ignored that comment completely, however, and diverted from the path, approaching the edge and raising his hand to shield his eyes against the flailing snow.

'Gimli,' Aragorn began with a warning tone. 'Come back from there.'

But Aragorn's words were not heeded, and the Dwarf continued to push towards the precipice.

'You would do well to hearken to what Aragorn says,' Legolas chipped in.

Perhaps it was because Legolas had said it. Maybe he simply had not heard. Either way, Gimli did not stay his actions, and proceeded over to stand little more than a foot from the periphery.

'Ha! I can see the other side easily enough – you don't have to be an Elf t-' Gimli's sentence was cut short when he felt a shift beneath his feet, and he looked down in shock to see the snow and rock he was standing on begin to tip downwards.

Legolas sensed it more than felt it, and he made the decision in a split second to dive forward and grab the Dwarf by the tunic. But by now the rock was falling with greater rapidity, the snow flowing away in a fluid motion, water over a waterfall. His feet could gain no sufficient purchase on the moving masses of snow, and his panic-filled eyes fixed with the horrified ones of Aragorn as he was dragged over the mountain by Gimli's weight.

'Aragorn-'

Aragorn lunged, his hand grasping at Legolas' desperately outstretched fingers. But his hold was simply not firm enough, and the Elf's hand slipped from his own.

'LEGOLAS – _NO!_'

He tried to make another grab for Legolas' hand, diving for the edge himself – but he found his arm suddenly restrained, and upon turning realised it was Boromir holding him back with the tightest grip he could without actually hurting him.

'Boromir – you must let me go-' Aragorn strained against his companion, and it took all of Boromir's strength to keep him from pulling free.

'No. Aragorn. Aragorn, listen. _Listen to me_.' His tone with those last words alone caused Aragorn to stop fighting for release and look at him. It had been firm, like a parent endeavouring to convey to a hyperactive child something of serious import. Steady green eyes met with grey ones full of turmoil. 'He is gone.'

Aragorn felt his eyes heat at this statement, and he could do naught but stare over the precipice into the furious blizzard. He was dimly aware of Gandalf's arrival, of the explanation offered to him by Boromir. But he did not listen. He did not wish to hear them conversing over Legolas in past tense.

Frodo watched the Ranger concernedly. Never before had he ever thought that Aragorn had any weakness – he was totally invincible. Well, clearly not now. The Hobbit had been aware of the closeness between man and Elf, but never had he thought it to be so strong.

He refused to accept it. It could not be true. _I will not allow it to be true._ Aragorn filled his lungs and bellowed Legolas' name into the tempest, praying that his voice would carry. The rest of the Fellowship ceased talking, eyes all to Aragorn. The Ranger paused for a few seconds, listening desperately to the wind with the thread-like hope that he would get a response. When none came, he called again...

'LEGOLAS, ANSWER ME!'

There was another pause, in which Gandalf stepped forward, extending his hand to Aragorn's shoulder. 'Aragorn, he's-'

'_ARAGORN!'_

Eyes widened in disbelief and joy at the sound of the familiar voice. Pippin cheered.

'LEGOLAS, HOW DO YOU FARE?'

The storm buffeted them relentlessly still, making it exceptionally difficult to hear above its selfish roar. Yet a few select words were permitted access, though they were hard to distinguish...

'_THE ... HIT HIS HEAD ... FINE_' was the best they got for the summary for Gimli's condition after the fall.

'WHAT ABOUT YOU?'

There was a short hesitation, and Aragorn knew it was not in order to allow the wind to drop so that he might make himself heard better.

'... _ALRIGHT._'

"_Alright." That means that he's done something._

'Gandalf, we must get down to them,' Aragorn insisted fervently, eyes now keen and sharp rather than panicked. But the wizard shook his head at the proposal, his mouth in a grim, flat line.

'No. It is simply not feasible, Aragorn, to get the whole group down there – we know not how far down they are, what the mountainside is like for climbing; for all we know, it could be a sheer drop with absolutely no foot-holds. _And_ there is the weather to think on: anyone rash enough to try and scale the rock face in _this_ will die for sure.'

Aragorn's brow creased in anger at this declaration and he shook his head at it.

'_No_. We must get help to them – by the sound of it, they have both sustained some injury in the fall - no matter how reluctant Legolas is to admit it – and they need assistance.' His face lit suddenly with the beacon of inspiration. 'Let me go.'

'Absolutely not! I implore you to _think_, Aragorn,' Gandalf more or less pleaded with the Ranger. 'You are bound to a fate that no other can fulfil, and if you die due to a moment of senseless recklessness, there is _no other_ to take your place. If that is not enough, then think of how distraught Legolas would be if you were to die over some superficial cut of his.'

Aragorn's face was swathed in the shadow of doubt and worry, and more than a hint of anger. He wrapped his travelling cloak tighter about his body. The wind seemed to poke and grope into every parting in his clothing, chilling his skin mercilessly. He cast an eye to the Hobbits, and sighed heavily as he observed them shivering. It would surely kill them to if they dithered here any longer – he could not allow that to happen...

'LEGOLAS!'

'_AYE?_'

'CAN YOU MEET WITH US AT THE OPENING OF THE PASS?'

There followed a pause, in which the Fellowship awaited the response with baited breath. The fact that it was taking Legolas so long to consider the answer was of a worry to them. Exactly how badly hurt were the pair? They knew that Gimli had a head injury, but as to Legolas' condition, they had no idea...

'_YES ... TWO DAYS, MAYBE THREE ... DEPENDS ... DWARF._'

Lightening snaked through the sky, striking at the mountain like a pitchfork wielded by an exceptionally furious farmer. It was not possible for them to stay any longer unless they wished to die, and so the broken Fellowship turned on their own tracks, Boromir and Aragorn each carrying a pair of Hobbits.

'But they _will_ be alright, won't they, Strider?' asked Pippin. 'I mean, they are both experienced in this kind of thing, and they _do_ have each other. And even if Gimli _is_ a bit bashed, he's got Legolas with him, right?'

'Exactly,' responded Aragorn darkly. 'He has Legolas with him.' He exchanged a grim look with Gandalf, shifted the weight of the Hobbits slightly, and began to trudge back through the snow.

Legolas was unable to see the edge of the pathway from which they had fallen. The blizzard had just intensified – something that he had previously deemed impossible – and there was no way back up that he was able to see. The cliff they had come down was a sheer drop, practically. Had it not been covered with so much snow, he held no doubt that they would both be dead by now. Even with all of that snow, it had not totally protected them from harm... Gimli's head bled freely, and his own lithe form had not escaped: somewhere along the way, Legolas' right knee had struck a rock. It hurt intensely, but he was still capable of using his leg and walking about – which was just as well, really, as Gimli was of no use to them...

He cast the Dwarf a reproachful glare, his lip curling in an opprobrious manner. He resented the position he had been thrown into by the careless actions of the Dwarf – he found it humourlessly amusing that he was the one landed with the Dwarf's care. It was a large cut, but nothing life threatening. _Unfortunately_, Legolas could not help thinking. He reluctantly rebuked himself for that thought... _It is shameful to think such a thing! No, no matter how much I dislike him, I'd never wish him ill._

The Elf sighed as he set about hunting for his arrows. Not a single one of them had remained in his quiver, and one of his knives had taken leave of its sheath without him wishing it to. The knife he found fairly early on, discovering the hilt poking out of the snow, obvious to him despite its pale colouration. He would have killed the Dwarf if he had lost one of his long knives because of him, for they were more precious to him than any jewel was to a Dwarf.

He picked up an arrow, the dark shaft showing itself openly to the world, and released a low hiss of annoyance when he discovered that it was only half a shaft he held, snapped in half and dangling by a few splinters. Completely and utterly useless.

'Elf?'

Legolas raised a brow at being addressed so, but passed over to Gimli all the same.

'Good. You're awake.' _Did that sound convincing? I don't think it did..._ Legolas crouched carefully by the Dwarf, sitting on his left haunches rather than both. 'How many of me do you see?'

Gimli squinted at Legolas, dark eyes blinking constantly, fighting against what Legolas knew was bound to be a headache.

'I see one, unfortunately.'

Legolas blinked at that remark. 'You would see me and seven others had you not been so idiotic.' He got up and walked out a way, no longer caring for the Dwarf's company; he feared that he should say something he was likely to regret if he stayed.

'What are you doing?'

'Nothing that merits your concern. Go to sleep or polish your axe.' Legolas continued with his scout for arrows, plucking them from the snow and paying no heed to the Dwavish that he could hear being cast into the bitter air. Some of the curses he knew, and some not – the ones that he _did_ know were not very flattering or indeed _polite_ – certainly things that one would not say in company. He began to imagine that each of the broken shafts was Gimli's neck.

The more Legolas hunted for his arrows, the more aware he became of the Dwarf. The weather – though it had no effect on him – was certainly not something a mortal could easily deal with. He knew from his past experiences with Aragorn how badly the cold reflected upon them, and he passed a concerned glance over to Gimli. The Dwarf was sitting in the snow, his arms wrapped about his body, brown eyes fixed on the Elf with an unwavering glare.

'It is rude to stare, you know,' Legolas informed in a lazy tone.

'Your manners are not exactly perfect, Elf – you have very bad, angry bed manner.'

Legolas straightened his back, riveting his eyes on the Dwarf with such a powerful glower that Gimli nearly recoiled. 'I wonder why that is, _Dwarf_. Could it possibly be because we have been separated from the main group, thus postponing the Ring Bearer and the others on the quest from gaining on their goal, and also placing ourselves in very real danger, all because of your stupidity? DO YOU THINK THAT IS WHY I AM ANGRY, BECAUSE _I CERTAINLY DO_!'

Gimli sat with his mouth agape, completely taken aback by the outburst from the Elf. He had never been shouted at like that before, _never_. And to hear it coming from the _Elf_ was a total shock to him – from what he had heard of Elves, they were meant to be a docile, tranquil people who had such placid, complacent natures that it was said to be the near impossible to anger one. Yet here the Prince of Mirkwood stood, red in the face with a slight quiver to his frame and fixing the Dwarf with the most piercing glare Gimli had ever had pinned upon him.

'Somehow – and the Valar _know how_ – we are both alive,' Legolas continued. He fished another arrow from the snow, pulling a face when he found it to be snapped. 'Fortunately,' he said, jabbing the splintered shaft in Gimli's direction, 'I've managed to gather most of my quiver back – and, luckily for you, my bow is still in one piece and I've recovered my knife. Had the situation been otherwise, there would only be one of us alive at the moment.'

Gimli glared back. He disliked being spoken to like a naughty child rather strongly. 'Have you finished your little diatribe yet, Elf?' he enquired smartly.

'Yes,' came the response before Legolas continued in a clipped tone: 'I'm going hunting. Stay here.' Legolas began to stalk away into the blizzard, and called over his shoulder: 'And I hardly think that "diatribe" is the correct word.'

'HOW WILL YOU FIND YOUR WAY BACK IN A SNOW STORM, YOU IDIOT?!'

There was, however, no response to the question, and Gimli watched as the Elf's silhouette was sucked into the blank wall of white. He huffed, plonking himself down in the snow with no care for wet or cold. Elves were so _insufferable_! No-one made him angry like this – it seemed typical that it would be an Elf that managed to push his temper to such a peak.

He was still not so sure about whether he trusted the Elf or not – it had, after all, been the Mirkwood Elves whom had captured his father and the others he was questing with. They had not been taken in a fight or even with arrows trained upon them. No, they were captured with _magic_. Anyone that did something like _that_ did not, in Gimli's eyes, merit the trust of anyone.


	3. Chapter Three: Of Elves and Dwarves

**Hello to all readers and reviewers! Thank you to those of you who did me the honour of reviewing - glad you liked it, and here's the next chapter for you.**

**Before we continue, there is one review in particular that I would like to address: the one concerning Legolas' age (if you do not wish to hear me have a rather lengthy rant, skip the bold - there's rather a lot of it ;)). Firstly, I would like to say that _I_ read in a book - a guide to Tolkien of some description - about the way in which Elves are aged in comparison to humans. Just as there are seven dog years to every human year, there are (according to my source) one-hundred and forty-four human years to an Elven year. If you do the maths, by dividing the age of film Legolas (that is two-thousand, nine-hundred and thirty-one) by one-hundred and forty-four, you work out that his age is the same as being twenty in human years. _My_ Legolas has been aged by a hundred years for my own purposes. As I have followed the rule carefully, there is nothing wrong with my Legolas being young.**

**As for what Tolkien said about Elves coming of age at fifty, I have never heard that one prior to now. I am not a Tolkienite, hence I have read LotR and The Hobbit, and I have seen the films. On occassion, I will dip into an encyclopaedia on the subject, but this is rare.**

**And please note that Tolkien _scholars_ said they _thought_ his age to be between five-hundred to nine-hundred. Not Tolkien himself, which I consider as being a major flaw in your argument. If you wish for things the author himself said about the character, consider this: Legolas was only created to make up numbers. No more, no less. He has little history, and we are offered minimal information on the character, which leaves it open for people like me to create him a history.**

**Right. I have argued my case. Please _do not_ tell me that I have a 'misunderstanding' about him being young. Truth be told, you yourself have no idea about how old he is - I don't give a flying monkey's arse about scholars and what they think they know. It is a matter open to interpretation. That is what a fanficion is, an intperpretation. Just as a film is an interpretation. Hence I can interpret as I please, and I will, with little regard for the odd reviewer that does not leave me with anything remotely useful criticism-wise.**

Chapter Three: Of Elves and Dwarves

He opened his eyes and instantly frowned. All about him was white. He could feel beneath him something coarse and springy, yet warm. He heard the wind, but its biting cold did not touch his skin. What he could feel, however, was the constant throbbing in his head. He winced slightly as he sat up to take in the surroundings. A solid wall of snow had been constructed before him, acting as a windbreak. Standing on top of the frozen barrier was the Elf. He had his weight on his left leg, the toe of his right resting lightly on the snow. Strands of gold whipped about his face, though he seemed not to care, remaining silent and vigil.

Without his tunic.

Gimli's fingers closed about the suede covering his own body, keeping him surprisingly warm. He glanced to the figure above him with a curious eye, intrigue kindled. The Elf had naught but a shirt to his back made of a light silvery material. That, in Gimli's opinion, was quite a sacrifice in this weather. _And that wall couldn't have been too easy, either..._

The Dwarf shifted slightly, causing the bed of fir branches to rustle gently. He saw the Elf's ear twitch at the sound before he turned. Legolas' face was no longer red but back to its usual pallor, the expression once more unreadable and guarded.

'I am glad to see that you have awoken,' he said with resounding formality in his tone. 'You slept well, I trust?'

Gimli graced the question with a brief nod as an answer.

'Did you shoot anything in your hunt?'

A soft indent came into the others' cheek at the mention of the storming off of the Elf – Gimli was quickly learning what these few keys to the Elf's thoughts meant. The chewing of the left cheek indicated either anger or agitation – either way, he knew that he had prodded a still open wound.

'No,' Legolas finally answered, though not sharply. 'No, all game seems to have gone to ground...' He shifted his position on his foot a little, placing his right down to take his weight. However it did not stay there: the Elf faltered as soon as he placed the foot to the snow, his body giving a small jolt and the left was instantly employed, lifting the right limb clear of the snow. Gimli made a mental note of this odd behaviour and to keep a close eye on it. After all, the Elf _had_ given up his jerkin to him in the cold...

'How fares your head?'

'It is-' Gimli paused, pondering over this question for a time '-mending.'

Legolas cocked his head at this, considering the Dwarf with his penetration blue gaze.

'I need to check your wound,' he eventually declared.

'It is not necessary...'

'Oh, but it is,' Legolas corrected.

Gimli became suddenly guarded, and he crossed his arms over his chest, head held high. He was less than willing to permit the Elf to prod at his head without a fight before hand – he still distrusted the creature. Aragorn may be willing to lay his life into the hands of an Elf, but Gimli far from was.

'No. You have no need to touch it – I've said it will do, so that is the end of it!'

Legolas chuckled, but it was a cold sort of sound, and it made the hair stand on the back of Gimli's neck.

'You make it sound almost as if you believe you have a choice in the matter. Understand, Master Gimli, you have a head wound. That places you at risk and in need of my assistance-'

'-_Assistance_? From _you_? I am perfectly fine, and I certainly need no "assistance" from any Elf!'

'Ah. I see.' Legolas narrowed his eyes. 'So you think that falling asleep in the middle of a blizzard _in_ the snow _before_ dark is a natural thing, do you?'

Gimli's mouth gaped soundlessly, unable to think of an appropriate response.

'Whether you – or indeed _I_ – like it, Dwarf, we are stuck here together. _You_ are wounded, and Aragorn is not here to treat you. Just you and I. If that is not good enough for you, out of the Fellowship, rank-wise, I come aft of Aragorn. _Above you_ if you have not yet worked that out.'

Gimli eyed the Elf as he hopped down the slope of the wall. He had never seen an Elf hop before...

'Please,' said the Elf softly, blue eyes looking imploringly into Gimli's. 'I just want to help. Please.'

The Dwarf analysed the Elf's face, scrutinising it for any insincerity. Upon finding none, he huffed and gyrated to allow Legolas to see his head.

Legolas sighed quietly to himself. His own people held a rather poignant reputation for being distrusting – he knew that he himself was a prime example pf his over-suspicious kind. But this _Dwarf_ rivalled the Mirkwood Elves in that area. He remembered well the Council of Elrond and the Dwarf's words: '_Never trust an Elf!_' The Dwarf had looked _straight at him _after he had shouted those words into the midst of the Council. The fact that he had blurted this right in the centre of an Elven stronghold was something Legolas perceived as being most unwise, and hence typically Dwarven...

He moved the masses of red hair carefully over to permit him full access to the injury. Now that he could see it properly, Legolas was relieved to find that – for all of the blood – the wound was quite small: a superficial cut with no real depth to it. Harmless.

_If only it were..._

Legolas – though he was loath to admit it – was concerned. The cut was of no worry to him, and he knew that it was bound to heal quickly. What _did_ worry him was the way it caused the Dwarf to sleep at odd times and the obvious headache that he had. Legolas sensed the pain of his stout companion and could think of its intensity. Being of Elven kind, Legolas was not prone to bouts of sickness like mortals were. However, that did not mean that his body was insusceptible to toxins. He had once been bitten by one of the giant Spiders back in his homeland. The poison had not been enough to kill him, but it had made him considerably ill for a lengthy duration, and one of the symptoms had been the worst headache he was sure anyone – Elven or otherwise – had ever endured. Noise hurt, light hurt, even the soft rush of his own blood past his ears was a menace. He had lasted out the poison's wrath in the healing wing with his arms wrapped about his head, hiding from the light beneath the covers of the bed.

_There was no way for me or any other to relieve that pain_, he thought. _But I _can_ lift yours – for a time, at least..._

Legolas spread out his fingers and placed his hands over the Dwarf's head, pressing gently...

Gimli felt the tension in his head melt away like butter in the sun. His blood no longer pounded in his ears, the agony leaving him in piece for the first time in what felt like an age.

'How do you do that?'

Legolas smiled softly. 'The touch of an Elf's hands to troubled mortal flesh has the power to offer relief.'

The Dwarf sat there for a time, thinking. Odd, that the Elf should draw the pain from his head like that. Having control of pain like that must be some kind of magic being used upon him. _To control him_.

'This is what I don't trust,' Gimli spoke out loud.

'I'm sorry?'

'You Elves with this taking the pain away thing – how do I know that you're not trying to seek some kind of control over me? How can I trust this magic of yours, this _thing_ that is so unnatural? For all I know, you could be trying to alter my mind-'

Gimli felt the hands remove themselves from his head, and without their cool touch the pain was back after a couple of seconds at its old strength. He turned to see the Elf walking away towards the wall.

'Where are you off to?' he called, a frown on his brow.

'All I wanted to do was help and give you a rest from the pain for a time. No more, no less. But you think that I an trying to ensnare you with a craft I do not even possess.' There was no anger in the Elf's voice. But there was hurt, and plenty of it. The Elf did not turn about, but alighted the wall in a laboured fashion, his leg clearly hindering his movements.

He did not know what to say. A cutting remark was more what Gimli had expected, but _this_? It was completely unpredicted, and the Dwarven warrior had no means of countering it.

'Why don't you use it on your leg, hmm? You go on about _me_ being injured and in need of treatment, but at least I can _walk_!'

The Elf's handsome face glanced over his shoulder briefly. Those blue eyes regarded Gimli for a short time expressionlessly, then went back to the blizzard. Not a word parted the Elven prince's lips. The silence said enough.


	4. Chapter Four: History

Chapter Four: History

Legolas passed the cloth over the blade again. The white metal blazed as the sun glinted in it as he tilted it in the new light. Now that the blizzard had finally subsided, the sun beat down on them fiercely, reflecting in the snow.

He levelled the knife with his face and held it there. Eyes so blue they rivalled the sky on a cloudless day stared back at him intently. Not the slightest fleck of green or brown was to be seen in them. They were – apparently – just like his mothers' had been. Everyone in the Court said so, even his father.

Legolas missed his mother. Sometimes he just wanted to see her, to know that she still loved him as much as he still loved her. When he was young, Legolas had always wanted dearly to show his Naneth new skills that he had learned. But he could not. The best he could do was visit her grave and account the information in words rather than actions. It was not the same. It still pained him to think of the tragedy that he and his father shared.

He cupped the blade in his hand to inspect the hilt. Bone, creamy-white with fine gold filigree laid into it in delicate wisps and tendrils. Not originally his, but his brother, Baerahir's. Legolas scrutinised his face critically, trying to find bits of his brother in his countenance. It was not there, so far as he was able to see. Baerahir – the elder of the pair – had always been said to look like the King, and Legolas like the Queen. Save his jaw and nose – though that had been broken a few times – those were from his father.

King Thranduil the Great had been thrown into kingship when the war between the First Alliance and Sauron had taken place. _His_ father, Oropher, had been slain by the Black Lord himself. And so had Baerahir. Three went to fight, one came back.

Thranduil took the crown with a grieving heart and a struggling wife. As much as they tried to focus upon their one remaining child, the Queen's despair had driven her to desperation and madness – and her death.

Thus it was that Legolas had grown as an only child, motherless. He was of the last to be born of his race, thanks to the arising darkness over the years which no Elven couple wished to risk exposing children to. He had passed through his years with a small yet highly-valued set of friends – the dearest of whom had also died.

Now Legolas had Aragorn, the best friend he had ever had. The human was so close to an Elf that Legolas had to remind himself that the Ranger was not of the Firstborn. And that Aragorn was fated to follow the path of all mortals.

_No-one I hold dear ever stays..._

'Elf?'

Legolas started, visibly jumping at the Dwarf's coarse voice, and he spun round to see Gimli standing at his shoulder – was that _concern_ on his face?

Gimli analysed the others' face intently, wondering if the Elf knew of the tears that made his eyes shine like they were doing. He looked so _unhappy_.

'The storm's gone,' he observed unnecessarily.

Legolas cleared his throat, averting his eyes to his knife again. 'Yes. Yes, it has.' He tested the edge of the blade with his thumb.

'Those knives are important to you, aren't they?'

The archer paused in what he did before replying: 'They are sacred to me.'

'A gift?'

'From my brother-'

'-I never knew you've got a brother!'

'I haven't. Not any more...'

The Elf rose from his seat – somewhat stiffly – and made his way down the wall of snow. To Legolas, that was the clearest sign anyone could give indicating that they desired solitude. But Gimli did not seem to read the sign very well and followed his much taller companion, practically walking on Legolas' heels.

'Have you a plan, Elf?'

'Yes.'

Gimli waited for a continuation of the response. However, when he got none, he probed: 'And that is ... what, exactly?'

'To leave.' Legolas checked himself before he said _you behind_.

He tried unrelentingly to conceal his limp, but the task was becoming increasingly difficult. There was an ever-present throbbing ache through his knee that prevented him from sleeping when at rest, and it was growing in its intensity. When he _used_ it, however, the throb became a knife in his leg, constantly stabbing. It was sapping away at his agility and ability to walk. He called the Dwarf a liability. In truth, the liability was _himself_.

As though he had read the archer's thoughts, Gimli queried: 'Have you even looked at your leg?'

'Yes,' Legolas instantly lied. He kept telling himself that the reason he had failed to examine it was due to the fact that they had no supplies. But in _truth_, the reason was because he dreaded what he would find.

'And?' Gimli prompted.

'It is bruised, nothing more.' Legolas picked up his pace in a futile effort to make the Dwarf leave him be – but all that achieved was his knee flaring in angry agony. He ignored it, however, penning the pain sensation in his head and leaving it there.

Gimli – upon the realisation that he had left his helmet and Legolas' jerkin – darted back to collect them, shooting back with a speed that greatly annoyed the Elf, though exactly _why_ he was unable to say.


	5. Chapter Five: Can't see the Wood for the...

Chapter Five: Can't see the Wood for the Trees

This felt so much better than being in the betraying open, to Legolas. Pine trees towered above their heads – true, his people were partial to beech, but – at that moment in time – a tree was a tree, and Legolas was grateful.

Gimli eyed the coarse trunks with keen dislike and increasing suspicion. They all looked the same to him...

'Are you sure, Elf, that we are not going round in circles?'

Legolas gave an exasperated sigh, making no effort to conceal his irritation. 'As I told you the last three times you asked that, no, we are _not_ going in circles. I know you have trouble with the whole concept of the word "trust", Dwarf, but it is one that you are going to have to come to terms with.'

'Well that boulder looks very familiar.'

'It is _not-_' but Legolas stopped his sentence, halting his stride as he stared in confusion at the rock. The Dwarf had sat on it a couple of hour's prior – the moss was still flat.

Gimli's expression was one of pure triumph ... but he took one look at the archer's face and let it slip. The Elf was utterly bemused, clearly completely thrown by the discovery of his rather larger error. His face had paled to nearly the shade of the snow.

'Your leg has slowed your mind as well as your pace.'

Legolas scowled at his stout companion, his nostrils pinched in anger, eyes dangerously narrowed.

'You lied this morning when you said you'd examined your knee,' Gimli continued, totally unfazed by the daggers that were being glared at him. 'All you have done is tend my injury – which is giving me no bother now, by the way – and rock-headedly refused to see to your own. You are being a foolish dolt, Legolas.'

Legolas' expression instantly lifted when the Dwarf used his name – he had always been "Pointy-ear" or just "Elf" until now.

'Now. You will sit on that rock, and you will look at your knee-' Gimli raised his hand when he saw Legolas open his mouth to protest. 'No. Not a word. I have endured your stubborn bravado for long enough; to be perfectly honest, that refusal to limp of yours has been irritating me. I see it in your face with every step you take that it pains you. Sit. You're annoying me.'

Legolas shook his head hopelessly. 'There is _no point_! We have no supplies with which to treat it, so I really see no logic in an examination.'

'It is _logical_ because you are hindering our progress, Elf! It is not getting better, it's getting worse, and what use to the Fellowship is an archer who cannot shoot because he was too imbecilic to check on an injured knee for the sake of his pride? Think about it!'

Legolas looked down to his leg, seeing that he had subconsciously raised it. Then he turned his eyes to Gimli, emitted a defeated sigh, and crossed to the boulder, sitting himself carefully on the springy moss.

Gimli went with him, quietly triumphant that he had won their battle of wills, and he stood watching as Legolas lifted the stuff of his trouser leg, pulling it clear of his knee. What was revealed made Gimli wince, and he heard Legolas swallow. "Bruised" was the wrong word for it: the entire knee was inflamed and practically every colour besides the one it was meant to be. A considerable gash spanned from the top of the kneecap to the bottom.

'Just bruised, eh?'

Legolas gave no response to that, but tentatively raised his hands. They hovered over his leg for a time.

'Exactly how good are you at the whole healing business?'

Legolas – to the immense surprise of both himself and Gimli – chuckled at the question. 'Not very,' he admitted. 'I know all of the fundamental parts – your head was of no challenge – but this surpasses my skills somewhat. Aragorn in his eighty-seven years has more skills with the healing arts than I have attained in all my millennia.'

'Well. That _is _reassuring.'

Legolas ignored the sarcasm. 'Can you hand me that broken shaft in my quiver?'

Gimli did as he was bid. 'You are expecting this to hurt?'

'I _know_ it is going to hurt; I fear infection has set in.' He clamped the wood between his teeth, hesitated briefly – and set his hands down firmly to the gash. It exploded with pain as soon as he applied pressure, but he did not raise his hands from their task. He felt around the wound with a firmness that made him wish to hit himself for inflicting such pain, but he continued nonetheless ... and found what he thought he would. It moved. It was not supposed to move. More to the point, it was not meant to be separated from the rest of the bone like that.

Legolas lifted his hands away, releasing the breath he did not know he held. He spat the shaft to the forest floor, noting that it had considerable teeth marks in it.

'I've broken my knee, Gimli. What kind of idiot breaks their _knee_?'

'Your kind of idiot, clearly.'

Legolas scowled darkly 'Thank you for that useless contribution.'

'If you insist upon saying useless things, expect useless responses.'

Rather than gracing that with scathing words, Legolas focused his attentions on his knee, watching with a grimace as the gash oozed with the application of pressure. The pain was fierce now, tearing at his senses like a ravenous warg. It was bordering on becoming all-consuming ... but he _had_ to be able to move: the Fellowship awaited them; the mission that had been entrusted to them was of too great an import to postpone for a damaged knee.

'I _have_ to be able to walk, Gimli, but I know now that I can't.' Desperation leaked into his voice before he was able to stop it. But he was locked in a desperate situation, and he was a Dwarf if he knew what to do.

Gimli stood observing his companion, his pipe between his lips. Smoke plumed into the crisp air, and Legolas pulled back from the smell, his nose wrinkled in distaste.

'I swear I shall never understand mortals and their love for things that stink like that.'

'There is nothing wrong with a good pipe,' retorted Gimli, crossing his arms over his chest in a defensive manner. 'It's good for relieving stress.'

'If you ask me – and I know you're not, before you say it – it's more of a dependency than for relieving...' Legolas' words faded into silence, a strange expression dominating his face, his eyes appearing unfocused.

'Elf? Are you alright? Elf? Legolas!'

Legolas seemed to come back to earth, his eyes lifting to Gimli's.

'Gimli, know you of _Dimfornë_?'

'Dim who?'

'_Dimfornë. _It is a plant which is a particularly strong drug. Um – Men call it _Coldturn_.'

When Gimli's expression remained blank, Legolas huffed with exasperation. 'Used by healers to relieve pain in their patients by making a tea with the bark. You can chew it, too-'

'-Oh! I know what you mean! _Elf-knife_, we call it.'

Legolas frowned heavily, looking rather affronted by such a name. 'Why do you call it that?'

'Because it is said amongst our race that Elves do not have a strong enough gut to hold it in.'

Legolas shook his head to himself. _Has the relationship between our two races degenerated that much?_

'Anyway, I need some, and I'd just like to ask-' he faltered, taking an instant dislike to Gimli's smirk.

'Yes, Elf? You were in the middle of saying something.'

'Can – can you find some for me?' Legolas finally finished softly, though the intense loathing that he clearly held for asking such a thing of a _Dwarf_ practically dripped from his voice. His pride was hurt rather badly by such a question.

Gimli's smirk widened, and he chuckled as he said: 'This hurts you, doesn't it?'

The Elf's eyes darkened, a murderous glimmer lighting within them dangerously. 'I would be more than happy to share the experience with you, if you wish it.' There was no humour in his tone, and he twirled the broken shaft between his fingers artfully. Gimli had a sharp image of that wood being jabbed into him in a rather alarming place, and swiftly concluded that it was unwise to provoke the Elf when he was in such a foul mood, so he turned on his heel to seek the _Elf-knife _that his companion so desired


	6. Chapter Six: Experiments

Chapter Six: Experiments

Gimli returned far sooner than Legolas had anticipated. He stood with a stalk of _Elf-knife_ in his hands, eyeing the Elf in a funny manner. Having noticed this, along with the Dwarf's apparent reluctance to hand the stalk over, Legolas said: 'What is wrong?'

'How do you fair with this stuff?'

Legolas frowned. 'I know not,' he finally admitted after chewing his cheek for a time. 'I've always been given _athelas_. But – seeing as we have none of the said herb – _Dimfornë _is the best option that is open to us.'

Gimli surveyed the Elf for a time before finally shaking his head. 'No. I don't think you should have it. We Dwarves only use it in extreme cases, and even then 'tis weakened in tea.'

Legolas' eyes flashed with clear annoyance. 'I shall explain this to you slowly: I. Cannot. Walk. After the "examination" that you _insisted_ on me carrying out, the pain is too great for me to use my leg without dulling my senses. We _have_ to get back to the Fellowship – you were shouting at me earlier for "hindering our progress," and now that we actually have a way to _make_ progress, you will not let me take it!'

'If this bark has a poor affect on you, what will we do then, hmm? We will be in more of a mess than a wasp stuck in honey!' Gimli had never been surer about anything in his life – the Elf would never be able to handle the Elf-knife in its purest form. Not a chance.

'Gimli,' Legolas began with a defeated voice. 'I would give anything right now to be able to bound up to the Fellowship like I was hopping on those rocks yesterday. But that will not happen. My injury is too severe for me to walk on it without the _Dimfornë_ to aid me.'

Gimli gave a sigh. 'Is there absolutely no other way for us to get to the others without you putting this in your mouth?'

'No – unless you can conjure up a horse for us both to ride...'

'A horse? Pah! I would sooner live in a tree than go on the back of a horse!'

Legolas frowned softly, mock indignation on his face. 'There is nothing wrong with horses,' he said in a hurt voice. 'I've had some wonderful horses in my time – particularly Blazen... He was fantastic – spirited and energetic, a slight challenge to handle, but the best warhorse I ever had. Very capable and-'

'Legolas?'

'Yes?'

'You're rambling.'

'Sorry.'

Gimli extended his hand, though the displeasure that he felt for what he did showed clearly in his face, and he could not help the feeling in his stomach that told him he had just done something very wrong. Legolas took the stalk, offered Gimli a grateful smile, and peeled some of the soft bark away with his knife. He looked at the piece of bark he held before himself, Gimli's words resounding in his head. What if it _did_ have an adverse affect on him? What, indeed, would they do? He popped it into his mouth all the same. _We shall see..._

He sat and chewed for a few minutes. The bark did not break up under the pressure his teeth applied but remained intact like a piece of unchewable fat. Its taste was bitter, and it made his tongue tingle slightly...

'Well?'

Legolas flexed his leg tentatively, and his eyebrows raised in surprise. 'It's gone!'

'What – no pain?'

'No _anything_,' Legolas responded. 'I can't feel the heat, the bone: nothing.'

'Good! Let's go!'

* * *

Legolas giggled. That was the first sign to Gimli that there was something wrong. The second was that the Elf swerved slightly as he walked, stumbling occasionally on the uneven ground. But the giggling worried him greatly – giggling was something that young girls did before they came of age, not hardened warriors.

Legolas giggled again.

'What amuses you so?' queried Gimli gruffly, trying to make himself sound normal and not even slightly concerned.

The Elf chuckled as he pointed an unsteady hand to the boughs of a pine tree not too far in front of them.

'What?'

Legolas sniggered. 'The squirrel!'

Gimli had a time finding the creature. When he eventually did spot it, however, he saw nothing remarkable or indeed even slightly amusing about it. It was sat at the base of a branch, watching them with cagey black eyes.

_I _knew_ I shouldn't have given it to him...  
_  
'Legolas, I demand that you spit that Dimr- Dimp- that _tripe_ out of your mouth. Now.'

Legolas looked at him with bleary eyes, and it was clear to Gimli that he was trying to focus on him. 'Which one of you said that?'

_Oh no...  
_  
'We all say it.'

Legolas nodded languidly at this as though it were perfectly normal, and spat the bark from his mouth as he was ordered.

'That's it,' Gimli praised the Elf, relief filling him at the fact that the Elf-knife was no longer able to influence Legolas further – but it was still in his bloodstream, and the Dwarven warrior had no inclination as to when the affects would wear off. 'Now. We are going to head in this direction and- Legolas, where are you going?'

The Elf was casually strolling between the trees, not taking the blindest bit of notice as to where he travelled...

A flat, snow-covered surface, so level that it could not possibly be land, stretched out for about half a mile before the Elf as he trudged along towards it, paying no heed to Gimli's frantic shouts coming from behind him...

'LEGOLAS! NO! _STOP_!'

Gimli watched in horror as the Elf sauntered onto the frozen lake, completely mindless of the peril he was in. The one thing that Gimli had previously loathed about the Elf and had fervently wished the other were deprived of had indeed now gone: his ability to walk atop of snow. Footprints created their shadows on the lake, brands on perfect skin.

And they were the only prints there.

'Legolas, come back – 'tis not safe!'

"Tis!' the Elf mocked, and he jumped.

And fell right through.

'LEGOLAS!'

Gimli hared across the land, caring not for the danger he placed himself in as he plunged through the snow, frantic to get to Legolas. _Stupid moron_!

* * *

The wind tousled his hair, sending it in brown flurries across his eyes, though he made no effort to stop it. Aragorn had perched himself atop a boulder, having located relatively decent footholds in its jagged surface, and now he observed the pass like an eagle on the summit of a mountain, watching with a patient gaze. How badly he wanted to go out there and look for them himself. Even if his search were fruitless, at least it would quell the seething anger that had lodged itself in his heart for his inaction. Gimli had injured his head, and Legolas clearly had attained some hurt or other, even if he had lied about it. He knew nothing of Gimli's abilities as a healer, but he knew of Legolas', and the knowledge of the fact that Legolas' healing skills were limited did nothing for his lack of confidence in their situation.

Pine forest stretched out endlessly before his grey eyes, an ocean of deep waves of green, sharp tips pointing at the sky like threatening pikes to an on-coming army...

He was dimly aware of another body scaling the boulder, and – judging by the scrape of a sword and clunk of a shield – he knew it to be Boromir. The younger man cursed softly as his weapon caught on the rough stone and nearly caused him a fall, but he wrenched it up and out of his way, finally lowering himself next to his companion.

Boromir too spanned the green sea, eyes squinting slightly in the sun's glare. He sniffed.

'They _will_ come back,' he declared, confidence ringing in his tone.

'You do not know that for sure.'

A silence asserted itself between them and remained, causing Boromir to reflect upon his decision to come up here as a poor one. Still, he was there, and after the climb had been so awkward, he did not favour going down just yet...

'Tell me of your attachment to Legolas,' he suddenly breached. 'I wish to hear, and maybe learn a little – I am not academic like my brother, but perhaps you can shed some light on my ignorance of the Firstborn.'

Aragorn gave Boromir a long, searching look, and the Steward's son hoped fervently that Aragorn did not detect the fact that he attempted to engage the other's thoughts from those which clearly bothered him.

Aragorn turned his eyes back to the forest. Boromir thought that his request was doomed to be ignored, but, just as he was preparing himself for another uncomfortable silence, Aragorn began: 'We have know each other for more years than you have lived. I have never heard of an Elf attach his friendship so freely to a mortal before. Elves have a tendency to stay with their own kind, you see; they have developed a mistrust of the world that is deep-seated and near impossible to shift.'

'Why is Legolas so different?' Boromir queried softly.

Aragorn gave a snort at the question. 'I know not – there are some things that he tells not even me... I have a theory that it has something to do with my father. Something happened between them, but I know not what... When we first met, he connected himself to me during a rather reckless hunt I went on with him – he threw himself in danger's path to save my life.' Aragorn looked at Boromir again. 'Immortality is a gift, and all Elves know this; they do not usually willingly risk their valuable lives for mortals.'

Boromir pondered over this for a time, confused. He could understand the part about Elves and their immortality; were he so gifted, he knew he would certainly think twice before giving his life for a creature doomed to die anyway.

'They will come back,' Boromir affirmed again. The words sounded stupid to his ears, odd. But the Ranger beside him turned, and shocked the warrior with a small smile.

'I know.'


	7. Chapter Seven: Dangerous Waters

Chapter Seven: Dangerous Waters

The ice of the lake was extremely thin, and despite the Dwarf's best efforts, when he began to cross to the hole through which his drugged companion disappeared, the soft creaking of cracking ice reached his ears, and he resigned himself to the fact that he might as well force his way through, as he was doomed to end up in the water anyway. No sooner had this conclusion been reached, then the precarious surface upon which he trod gave in to his weight.

Nothing could have prepared him for the intense agony of the freezing cold. It was so fierce and all-consuming that he was unable to think or breathe. His senses were totally obliterated by the ice-fire that tried to shatter his bones. But he was in there for a reason – though his head was encountering great difficulty in thinking of what that reason was.

_Elf!_ Something in his mind shouted. _You must fetch out the Elf!_

Gimli's brain began to focus upon the task laid before him, and the Dwarf forced his body to work with his head. By the Valar, it hurt, but Gimli carried each movement through, concentrating on his target and constantly cursing Legolas to keep his brain active...

_Imbecilic dolt! What kind of moron walks onto a frozen lake? _Then another thing struck him:_ If he freezes to death in here, I'm going to kill him! Making me have to come in here and freeze my family assets off – who does he think he is? BLOODY ELVES!_

The ice broke easily as his hands clubbed at it – his fingers were so numb they felt like senseless sausages attached to him. As it was, there was only about a centimetre of ice, and as if that was not enough to let a body through it, the pocket of air of about three inches certainly did not help. Some part of his brain that was not busy cussing Legolas concluded that this lake must have an outlet somewhere.

The lake was not actually deep at all, and Gimli's feet easily bounced him along its rocky bottom – right to where a blond-haired body bobbed in the water, totally still.

_If I have to give you the kiss of life, I really _will_ kill you!_

Gimli's numb fingers wrapped about Legolas' jerkin, and he pulled, not giving a damn about whether or not the head of the other came into contact with any ice that was still attached. All Gimli could think of was getting out. Now that Legolas was in his grasp, his main priority was getting out, finding shelter, and making a fire. He had flints somewhere, he knew, so fire would be no problem, and he knew of a cave they had passed that was no long distance from where they were.

He trudged up the bank, still hauling the Elf behind him. Even though the Elf could walk on snow, he was certainly no light-weight, much to Gimli's surprise. Legolas' actually body weight so contradicted what he was able to do that Gimli found himself once more completely bamboozled by his companion's race. But he decided there and then to give up trying to fathom Elves, as he concluded that pursuing full understanding of their bizarre race would surely push his mind to insanity. Ignorance was bliss.

He let go of Legolas as soon as the other's feet were fully cleared of the water, checking blearily that the Elf actually breathed; he did not wish to get into trouble with Aragorn for letting the Ranger's best friend die – such a thing would have made travelling with the man a most uncomfortable ordeal. Despite himself, Gimli _did_ actually care about whether the Elf lived or no. He had become oddly attached, in a funny sort of way. Their constant bickering had not ceased, but an understanding was being reached between them. The Dwarf had been touched when he had learned of Legolas' sentiment over his knives, and the way the pair had been thrown together and forced to get along in order to survive had certainly reflected upon their opinions of each other. They had both done things for each other that had not been asked of them, and Gimli thought that perhaps calling the Elf "friend" was not such a bad thing as it had originally seemed.

However, mulling over friendship was not of paramount importance at that particular moment. Gimli grasped Legolas' jerkin again and proceeded with dragging the other through the snow. His body screamed at him for his actions, its protestation making doing _anything_ formidable with the pain. But he ignored it, trudging doggedly along, eyes focused straight ahead. _Through those trees lies a cave with dry matter in it: a fire is what we need at the moment. Yes, a good strong fire..._

The gradient of the earth was difficult for him to negotiate: the slope was growing gradually steeper as they approached the rise, rocks so randomly strewn about the place that Gimli was sure the Valar had placed them so very awkwardly just to spite him. Manoeuvring about them was horrendously hard. His mind was slipping, the temptation to simply let go of Legolas and lie down great.

The cave mouth presented itself to his sight above the earth, and Gimli breathed a smoky sigh of relief.

_Ah! Some heat at last!_

Their journey, though it had been arduous, had certainly been worth it, he thought, as Gimli's eyes roved about the cave's dark interior. True it was dark, but the fire would soon sort that out, and the place was very dry and of a comfortable size. What struck Gimli, however, was the smell. It was quite strong and clearly animal-orientated, but it was not wolf, and certainly not bear. He was not willing to offer the matter any further thought, though – _Fire and heat!_

Near the back of the cave, he cleared a hole in the great abundance of dried plant material for the fire, piled up what he thought to be a substantial amount of tinder, and struck his flints. His fingers fumbled over the task, clumsy with cold – but with perseverance sparks eventually flew into the grasses, and a tentative flame gradually began to gather confidence as it ate away at the fresh food of dead branches that he found.

_Now to get the Elf over here and I'm done..._

Since he let go of the Elf, though, Legolas' weight felt as though it had doubled – Gimli was unable to shift him, no matter how hard he drove his protesting limbs. Gimli released his companion again, and stood back. It alarmed him to see that Legolas' eyes were open...

_What? Is he dead?_

However, when the other sighed deeply, he had to assume that he was not dead, but in fact living, though he could not for the life of him suss out _why_ the Elf's eyes were wide open. Of course he knew of people who slept with their eyes open, but like _that_? They were not unfocused like they should be – however, they were not entirely focused, either. They stared through everything, and Gimli felt very uncomfortable, despite the fact that it was not him they stared at.

'Elf. Wake up.' He prodded Legolas' shoulder, vainly trying to provoke a reaction of some nature out of him. 'Elf! Legolas!'

Nothing happened.

'Pointy-ear! Freak of nature!'

Still nothing.

He knelt down, situating his mouth close to Legolas' ear, and whispered: 'Your precious palace is a _cave_!'

Legolas sat up, a frown playing across his forehead. His eyes turned on Gimli and he glowered threateningly at the other. However, Gimli had become too used to that particular expression to really care, and he immediately set to heaving Legolas up by pulling on his arm.

'Come on, lad, there's a fire for you to sleep in front of if that's what you want to do. Elf or no Elf, lying in wet clothes isn't good for anyone. Move.'

'Wet-? How did I get wet?'

'You mean you don't _remember_?' Gimli could hardly believe what he was hearing. It could not possibly have been more than twenty minutes since he had dragged the Elf out of the water. But then he thought that, perhaps, this was a side-effect of the drug and an indication that it was wearing off. He sincerely hoped so...

'Are you sure you want me to tell you?'

Legolas thought on this for a moment. 'Is it the kind of thing that I would truly _want_ to know?'

'Actually, I think you're better off _not_ knowing.'

'I agree. Let us never speak of this again – oh, and _please_ don't tell Aragorn,' Legolas more or less begged. 'He'd have the time of his life with this...'

Gimli grinned. The thought of telling Aragorn was indeed appealing. However, the Dwarf gave a curt nod of agreement – Legolas had, after all, done a great amount for him, and he deemed it only fair to pay him back by keeping this one secret.

Legolas rose to his feet, though the action was clumsy, and he had to fight back the sudden nausea and dizziness that engulfed him. Perhaps sleep was the best option at the moment, just until his body and mind gathered themselves back together properly. He took himself over to the fire, removing his tunic and boots to allow them to dry, and then set himself down in the dry grass. With respect to this, Gimli went and lay down on the other side of the fire. Legolas' mind was already beginning to slip back into the comforting arms of sleep ... but something was niggling at him. He allowed it his thought, and sluggishly realised that it was the smell of the place that was upsetting him. He _knew_ what the smell was – but, as his brain was so completely thrown and his senses totally awry due to the _Dimfornë_, he simply could not remember what it was. There was high significance to it, he was aware of that, yet still the answer eluded him.

'Gimli?'

'Nugh?'

'What is the smell in here?'

'Just a smell,' came the tired response, irritation flashing in it. 'Go back to sleep. It really isn't anything to worry yourself over.'

Silence. Then: 'But it could be a danger-'

Gimli made a noise in his throat – something between a rather strong curse and a growl – and sat up, pinning Legolas with eyes dark with tiredness. 'You are tired, Elf. More to the point, _I'm_ tired. When you know what the smell is, then I'll listen. At the moment, though, you haven't got a clue. Stop behaving like a child that doesn't want to go to bed, and _go back to sleep_. You never know: perhaps you'll dream up the answer.' With that, Gimli lay back down again, giving the clearest possible indication that the conversation was over.

Legolas watched the Dwarf for a time through the flames. He sighed. Gimli was right, after all: he really did need to go to sleep; the _Dimfornë_ was actually making him feel even more ill than it had previously, and the Elf curled himself up around his enraged belly, finally permitting his mind to wander into the bliss of sleep.


	8. Chapter Eight: A Whispered Evil on the W...

Chapter Eight: A Whispered Evil on the Wind 

Aragorn watched the moon rise. He had not done such a thing for a few years now, and seeing her raise her pale face to gaze shyly upon the lands was something that he found he had missed. Never before had he paid it so much attention during a watch, but now that the greater majority of the Fellowship whom were actually present were sleeping, he discovered that he had the time to watch to his heart's content without being greatly hindered.

Boromir dosed lightly, waking at the slightest movement. Gandalf did not sleep, but sat with a pensive expression on his face, pipe in mouth. Merry and Frodo slept deeply, having taken note of Pippin's actions: the Hobbit had become so very bored with inaction that he had simply curled up under Boromir's cloak and gone to sleep.

Sam, however, did not sleep, nor did he sit doing nothing: he stood with Bill, smoothing the pony's face and talking to him in soft tones. The animal was responding well to Sam's love, Aragorn noted. Indeed, he seemed to have put a great deal of weight on since Aragorn had bought him from Bill Ferny. Perhaps the food had made the changes. Perhaps it was the boundless love Sam gave him. Whatever it was, Bill was the most enthusiastic and cheerful pack animal the Ranger had ever encountered.

A ... _something_ stirred in the forest below. Aragorn felt more than saw it, but there was definitely something there. A fleeting brush against his senses, and it was gone. But he was keen to discover what the something was. Though he was not an Elf nor would he ever claim to be, Aragorn's senses were more finely tuned than most mortals. It was an inevitability for one whom had grown up with Elves. If you went hunting with Elves, you learnt how to use your eyes and ears _correctly_, not the way mortals abused them, as Elves saw it. You also developed a keener ability to detect when there was something wrong near you – not quite like an Elf – the Ranger was simply more attuned to the world than most other people. However, that did not stop him missing Legolas' much finer senses at that moment. The Elf was easy to read for any who knew what they were looking for: if Legolas sensed something was not right, he would become restless and fidgety, and, even better, would be able to tell Aragorn exactly what the problem was.

Bill snorted. Aragorn turned at this, his brow knitted in concern. Bill was quite possibly the most placid animal Aragorn had ever known. But now that he looked at him, the Ranger saw the eyes of the pony rolling in his head with evident terror, hooves pawing at the ground. He started to neigh, rearing up and straining against the head collar. Sam was the only thing holding the beast in place and, despite Bill's size, he was certainly strong enough to rip a rope from a Hobbit's hands and bolt.

'Bill? What's wrong?' The worry rang in Sam's voice as Bill released another neigh into the bitter air.

Aragorn descended from his perch atop the boulder he had selected as his lookout post, rushing over to the pony. 'Let go, Sam,' he instructed, as Bill reared again, fully thrashing his forelegs this time. It certainly tested Aragorn's strength to hold the animal in place. His hands slowly advanced up the length of rope, calming words of Sindarin being softly uttered. Bill eventually stilled his unnatural behaviour to Aragorn's soothing strokes and gentle words – but his eyes still roamed frantically over the surrounding area, the odd snort being emitted into the cold air.

Boromir appeared at his shoulder, eyes questioning. He had not failed, Aragorn noticed, to bring his sword with him.

'What is wrong?' he more or less whispered.

'Some evil stirs in the forest, though I know not what,' Aragorn relayed. 'If it is enough to upset Bill, then it is enough to suggest to me that a scouting party is called for.'

* * *

The niggling feeling woke him up. Again. Legolas was unable to shake it from his shoulders, no matter how hard he tried to do as Gimli said and let the matter rest. His mind continued to work through his sleep – Legolas had, after all, learnt to entrust his life to his senses. Listening to them was how he had endured over three millennia. His subconscious clearly deemed his willingness to give up on the puzzle presented to him as unacceptable and, ultimately, stupid, and so it had toiled on through his rest to try and solve it. Now it was screaming at him to listen once more...

'You're awake again, aren't you?'

Legolas cast his eyes to the Dwarf, who was currently watching him through the fire.

'How did you know?' the Elf asked, his voice soft, echoing slightly in the immense space about him.

'You've been tossing in your sleep for the better part of three hours,' came the response. 'When you actually lay still for the first time, I knew that you'd either died or awoken.'

Legolas smiled. 'I've never heard of anyone being woken up by silence before...'

'It happens. Sometimes. Mainly when you really desperately want to sleep.'

Legolas took himself to his feet, now fed up of lying down. _Something is wrong..._

'You really are worried about that smell, aren't you?'

The Elf cocked his head at Gimli, pausing briefly in what he did. He resisted the temptation to say "how very observant you are," and selected a more polite answer: 'I know what it is, and there lies the problem; had I not taken that _Dimforn_, I know I would be able to remember – how frustrating it is to _not remember_!' He began to pace, running his hands through his hair in his aggravation.

'You are confidant that it is of something dangerous, then?'

Legolas sat down on a rock, never leaving the light of the fire, Gimli noticed. 'Yes, it is a danger, and it is serious.' He began to pull his boots back on...

'How is it,' Gimli began, after watching the Elf's bare foot disappear into a boot, 'that you can wear those boots with no stockings?'

'They are soft inside,' came the response, and Legolas offered Gimli a boot so that he could test it.

'No thank you,' said the Dwarf, pulling away a little. 'Your feet smell.'

Legolas glowered at that comment. He finished with his boots and then set to replacing his jerkin and quiver, taking out a broken shaft and proceeding with picking his nails with the arrowhead. It seemed to Gimli that the Elf was nervous – he was not one to fidget like he was doing...

'Tell me something,' Legolas said, feeling a need to lift the silence - even though it had been short - from the place. 'What is your home like?'

'Why on earth would you want to know that?'

'Please, Gimli – satiate my curiosity. I wish to know, that is all.'

Gimli scrutinised Legolas' face intently, hunting for any possible insincerity. When he found nothing but a purely innocent face looking back at him attentively, he began to talk. 'It is a fantastic place, Master Elf. Beyond the magnificent gateway of carven stone lies a kingdom of such majesty as you have never before witnessed: countless halls and caverns finely crafted to flaunt their beauty in all its fine glory.

'All around is the music of the mountain: we did not care to divert the course of the water springs, and so they run through the great halls, providing all with their song.

'The walls shimmer, they are so polished, and hardly a torch is needed, for their wonderful surfaces reflect the light so well.' Gimli stopped, a far-off look in his eyes. But he seemed to come back to the now dreary-seeming cave they were in at that moment, and he turned to the Elf prince on the rock, who had not moved a muscle. 'What of your home, Elf?'

'_My_ home? Well – Mirkwood is – is-' He could not think of what to say. Finally he came out with: 'Troubled. Our lands are beautiful enough: the trees stand tall despite the wrath of the seasons, and the palace is a fine place. But my people are plagued constantly by Orcs and ... and...' Legolas paled dramatically, so much so that Gimli was sure he would pass out.

'Elf? What's wrong?'

Legolas' eyes, clear as any sapphire ever mined by the Dwarves, were wide with sudden terror. There was a slight tremble to his voice as he said with a timbre barely louder than a whisper: 'Gimli, we are in a warg cave.'

'A _warg cave_? Are you sure, lad?'

Legolas leapt to his feet, crossing to the fire and stamping frantically on the flames. 'This is not the ideal time to start questioning me, Gimli! I learnt millennia ago to entrust everything to my senses. They have been trying to tell me for long enough that this is a dangerous place, and now I know why! You have brought us to our deaths!'

'You are missing out on something, Elf.'

'Oh yes? And what might that be?' came the terse response.

'_There. Is. Nothing. Here!_'

'Don't be so stupid!' Legolas hissed. 'Do you honestly think that wargs don't go hunting? Believe it or not, they eat!'

'Now don't you-'

'-Shh!'

Gimli found it hard to believe himself, but he actually silenced at Legolas' command. The Elf had stiffened, clearly listening, bright eyes that reflected even the smallest hint of light as though it were the sun staring out into the pitch of night. Gimli was forcefully reminded of a deer sighting a predator. The eyes seemed to detect something - though what it was Gimli could not see, even though he strained – as they jerked to the right-hand side of the cave entrance, fixing on something. Legolas watched something ... and Gimli had a horrible feeling that something was watching him back.

A howl shattered the silence of the night. It made Legolas shudder with revulsion as the cry was answered by many others. They were spaced out, some of the responding beasts quite a distance apart.

'Wolves!'

'No, Gimli,' Legolas corrected in a grim tone. 'Wolves are creatures of supreme grace and majesty: these are wargs. Abominations. A mockery almost as great as trolls are of Ents – or Orcs of my own people.'

Gimli heard the under-lying sadness in Legolas' voice, and for quite possibly the first time in his life, he took pity on an Elf. He knew sketchily of the way in which Orcs had been created, and he found it difficult to relate the regal, elegant figure beside him to the bent and horrific forms of the Orcs.

'Well. Do you have a plan of action against these _abominations_?'

Gimli could hardly see the Elf in the dark, but he knew exactly what the expression the other wore was like.

'I cannot gauge how many there are,' Legolas informed, a slight hint of desperation in his voice. 'I couldn't tell you whether it is one or ten outside.'

'But surely those pointy ears of yours are good for something! Can't you _hear_ them?'

Legolas turned to Gimli in the dark, the bright eyes glinting with evident anger. 'Something that you seem to be having great difficulty in grasping, Dwarf, is that wargs are of a more cunning nature than you are apparently capable of understanding! Their intelligence is _not_ something to be scoffed at-' He cut short when he heard the low growl being emitted from outside. It was joined by the guttural threats of at least two other animals.

Legolas raised his bow, notching an arrow faster than the eye could see. He gave a soft, mirthless laugh. 'Shooting in the dark.' He paused, and, after a second or so of simply listening, loosed the arrow, relying on his ears to find the target rather than his eyes. There was a dull thud as the projectile found flesh, a yelp piercing the crisp air briefly, and then the sound of a sizable animal collapsing.

Then silence.

Legolas and Gimli waited, completely motionless, listening, not daring to breath. Nothing stirred outside, not even the wind. They waited for what seemed like an eternity for something to happen.

'Do you hear anything?' Gimli finally whispered tentatively, his voice seeming to boom in the pressing silence.

'Nothing,' Legolas replied.

'Well,' said the Dwarf, confidence reinstalled in his voice, 'your ears are better than mine, and if you can't hear anything, then surely 'tis safe!'

'Gimli,' Legolas said in a warning tone. 'These creatures are more devious than you are giving them credit for-'

'-They are _wargs_, Legolas! Stupid beasts without any brains. There was one of them, and you killed it, so we are now safe to leave.' With those words, Gimli began to advance towards the cave entrance.

'Gimli, there was more than one– Gimli, NO!'

It loomed over him as the warg made its attacking leap. Gimli was paralysed before it, shock immobilising him – all he could do was stare at the teeth in the gaping maw. It was going to kill him...

The arrow sang through the air, its deadly song ending sharply as the cold point buried itself deep into the warg. The animal fell to the side, crying out with its pain. The cry, however, transformed into a tremulous snarl of blind rage, and the warg brought itself to its feet again, and Legolas was dismayed to see that his shaft – which had hit the neck – had not struck in the right place, failing to administer the fatal wound he desired.

It began to run at the Dwarf...

'Gimli, MOVE!'

Gimli stumbled back, not taking his eyes from the evil creature as it pursued him through the cave. Legolas cursed strongly: he could make out no clear definition between the Dwarf and the creature he wished to shoot. The _Dimforn_ was not yet out of his system, and it was making his vision less sharp than it should be.

Gimli watched with horror as the warg made a lunge at him – and then he found himself on the cave floor, having been pushed away. When he righted his position, he could only ogle at the scene. Legolas was stood primed, knives in his hands. The warg flashed its teeth at him. It was a strange contrast, watching this beast easily as large as a horse, matted dirt-brown coat raised at the hackles, yellowing teeth bared – and the lithe, pale Elf, his knives held with an air that promised death would be dealt from their beautiful edges if the warg made any move that did not fare well with their owner.

'Come on,' Legolas coaxed. 'I'm waiting.'

It snapped at him, taking a lunge, only to jump back as a blade swiped at its nose. The warg snarled, circling the Elf, never too close to the biting knife-edges. Legolas gyrated with it, his eyes fixed on his enemy. Wargs, in his experience, were dangerously clever, and he dared not even slightly offer it his back.

The warg made a sudden rush...

And fell, an axe deeply imbedded in its head.

Legolas looked at Gimli, relief and a little shock on his face. Gimli grinned in the half-light.

'How's that for moving, eh, Elf?'

Legolas merely chuckled and shook his head.

The baying of more wargs echoed through the air. They were not so far as they had originally sounded...

Legolas began to walk cautiously over to the cave entrance...

'Elf! What are you doing? Come back from there!'

Legolas, however, continued, sharp eyes surveying the surrounding area. He did not fully leave the cave, but dwindled in the mouth of it, still searching the area ... and cupped his hands to his mouth.

* * *

Aragorn and Boromir stopped. They had heard the yelping and baying of the wargs, and Aragorn was now sure that it was those beasts that had made Bill so jittery. What he was not so sure about, however, was the location of the pack – they appeared to be spread out, but ever advancing towards one point, from which the yelping occasionally sprang.

'I have a very bad feeling about this, Boromir,' Aragorn informed the other, the tension he felt echoing in his voice.

'You think it is Gimli and Legolas they are after, don't you? I am afraid that is my thought also.'

Aragorn glanced at his companion in the clear light of the moon, which filtered through the trees with its ghostly rays, giving the younger man a slightly blue face. 'Yes, that is my fear. From what Legolas said two days ago, neither of them are fine – they should have re-joined the Fellowship by now-'

A howl rent through the air. It was not like that of a warg, though – it was far more beautiful, and it was much longer than a warg's cry. It made the hair rise on the back of Boromir's neck - but for all its majesty, it filled him with dread... 'Wonderful. Wolves. Just what we need.'

But when he turned his eyes to Aragorn, he was shocked to see the other grinning almost stupidly. Aragorn looked at Boromir, and explained: 'Not wolves, Boromir. Wolves do not go near wargs. No. _That_ was Legolas.'

'_Legolas_? Why would _he_ be howling?' Boromir did not understand at all; it seemed to him to be a highly idiotic thing to do in a situation where wargs were baying for your blood, so to speak.

'He is speaking to me,' the Ranger continued. 'This is our means of contacting each other without betraying ourselves near enemies when we are apart and need to locate one another-' But he cut off as another howl shivered through the air, and the grin vanished completely from his countenance. In its place was evident horror, and he began to run, not looking back to see if Boromir pursued him or not.

'Why the sudden change, Aragorn?' Boromir called, straining to keep up with the fleet-footed man.

'One howl is to locate the lost friend. Two is a desperate call for aid.' He howled himself as he ran, the sound jerking with his uneven steps. _I am coming, my brother. Hold on._

Legolas fell back from the entrance, two wargs materialising out of the black. He slashed the air with a knife, driving them back a short distance – they had seen what those blades could do, and were none too keen on finding out what their bite felt like.

Gimli shook his head at his lithe companion when he was back beside him. 'You are insane,' he said, still shaking his head. 'You step casually outside where wargs are, and then you _howl_ like one of them! Anyone would think that you _wished_ for them to attack us!'

Legolas cocked his head, eyes never leaving the mouth of their prison. 'Firstly, Gimli, I did not "step casually outside." I made sure there was no immediate danger. Secondly, I do not wish for them to attack us or, indeed, to attract them. I called for help. Aragorn is coming.'

_He is not right in the head_, the Dwarf concluded. _He has gone, completely gone!_

One, perhaps, was to be expected. But a surge of _three_ was more than Legolas and Gimli could cope with. Axe and knife dealt the fatal blows and slashes to two of the monsters, but the third – and largest – of the wargs escaped injury completely. Legolas did not have enough room to manoeuvre himself out of the way, and the breath was knocked clean of his body as the warg's gigantic paws thrust into his chest. He cried out sharply, his hands releasing the knives in his shock. His back slammed into the cave floor so hard that his spine jarred agonisingly...

'LEGOLAS!'

The Elf was able to gather his wits in time to realise that the warg was making ready to strike at his throat. Those jaws would clench about his neck. The teeth would make short work of his flesh, and his lifeblood would gush from his body. His windpipe was going to be severed, and here would end Legolas Thranduilion, only child of the King of Mirkwood, the only member of his people to travel on this boundlessly important journey with the Ring Bearer.

_NO..._


	9. Chapter Nine: An Interesting Situation

Chapter Nine: An Interesting Situation

Aragorn surveyed the scene below them from their vantage point, shaking his head to himself. Wargs, next to Orcs, were his least favourite inhabitants of Middle-earth, and there were minimally twenty of the damn things, swarming about the cave entrance like excited wasps.

Boromir gave a slow release of breath besides him, a clear indication that the Gondorian warrior was not overly impressed by their circumstances. 'I assume,' he began with a heavy tone, 'you are absolutely certain that those wargs have not simply cornered a bear in the cave?'

'A bear does not shoot arrows fashioned by Elves,' responded the Ranger coolly. He gestured to the corpse of a warg which lay a few feet from the cave entrance, a shaft protruding from its head.

Aragorn took his bow from his back, loosening the ties of his arrow bag. From this position, he knew he could pick the wargs off, one by one. However, there were twenty of the pack, and two of them; it was not possible for Aragorn to shoot each and every beast without the wargs reaching their location before the last animal fell. Aragorn's weapon of choice was not the bow and arrow, and, even though he was a good shot, he was not nearly so fast or indeed accurate as Legolas was. Legolas, he knew, was able to loose five shafts with deadly proficiency in the time it took Aragorn to notch and aim two.

Three wargs charged the cave, baying into the night. The noise made Boromir's skin twinge unpleasantly. Ferocious snapping and snarling was next heard, then yelping – and then a short, loud cry of pain.

Gimli's panicked scream of the Elf's name shimmered through the cold air.

Aragorn's heart stopped in that moment. His stomach felt like it had no bottom to it. Had he been killed? Was Legolas dead? _It cannot be!_

Aragorn skidded down the steep slope, giving no mind to the earth he upset on his way down. He cared not whether Boromir followed. There was no plan in his head as to exactly how he was not going to get himself killed. All he cared about was getting to Legolas, no more than that.

His hands thrust up into the gaping maw, and for a split second, Legolas prayed to the Valar that the anatomy of a warg was not that dissimilar from that of his dog. His thumbs pressed as hard as they could into the roof of the beast's mouth, his long fingers wrapping about the warg's muzzle...

Gimli tried desperately to get to his Elven companion, but the siege continued relentlessly, and he was hard-pressed to keep his own life intact. All he could see, so far as Legolas' situation went, was the animal on top of him, and the Elf's hands in its mouth. He had no time to ponder over why Legolas would do such a stupid thing as to put his hands into the mouth of such a creature; the outcome he could see for such an action was the Elf losing his limbs. However, now was not the time for Gimli to mull over the strangeness of Elves, and his axe plunged deep into a hairy neck...

The weight of the warg was incredible: it restricted his breathing as a gigantic foot pressed down into his breastbone, and he was forced to fight a relentless battle in his own head to stop himself from passing out. But the thing he was most aware of was his knee. It made its indignation at being stood on by a constantly shifting warg's foot loud enough, and it was all the Elf could do to keep himself from simply screaming out and letting go of his grip.

The warg pushed its great tongue at his hands, trying frantically to shake his grip off. Drool slivered down Legolas' arms, dripping onto his face and neck. It clawed at him, the lower jaw forever working, never ceasing its attempt to bite.

But it could not.

Legolas had had dogs around him all of his life. Hounds, every one of them, sleek animals bred for the hunt. Legolas had spent many an hour in the kennels, escaping his tutors when their backs were turned during his continuous lessons to play with the puppies and juveniles, rolling with them in the hay. He had relished his excursions to see the hounds, adoring the "rough and tumble". And that was how he learned that, if you press your thumbs into the roof of a dog's mouth and hold its muzzle, it cannot bite you. Legolas never fully understood how it worked – but, at that particular moment in time, he was simply grateful that he had managed to dip out of his lessons and learn something of _real_ importance.

A sound reached their ears that they never thought they would hear again. The sharp whistling lit a spark of hope in their hearts, and Legolas remembered exactly why he loved the song of a bow and arrow.

'Aragorn?' he cried out, spending his much-needed breath on his shout.

'We're out here, Legolas!' the Ranger replied.

'Well _get in here_!'

Gimli blinked with amazement as the two men cut their way through wargs, the bow now discarded on the ground in favour of the sword. They fought back-to-back, and no beast with any level of effort could get to them. The two companions acted as one, fluidly moving with deadly grace. Despite their differences, they had set them aside to aid the Elf and Dwarf. _This is what Fellowship means_, Gimli told himself, and he felt a sudden flush of shame wash over him. The way in which he had treated the Elf at times during their days on the mountainside had been less than acceptable. Legolas was not completely faultless, mind, but Gimli could not help but feel that the Elf's closure and stiff attitude towards him had not been totally one-sided. Something of the Elf's private nature had offended him, he realised, and that was why they had not entirely gotten along. The Dwarf now accepted that perhaps Legolas was just a solitary soul. He had hinted briefly at something in his past that Gimli had cause to believe resulted in great trauma of some description. Expecting the Elf to disclose such personal information to him, he realised, was not necessarily a reasonable thing to ask of someone he hardly knew...

The wargs in the cave turned at their new assailants, hackles bristling and lips peeled back to show yellowed teeth. They were clearly enraged by the mass of fallen pack members behind the two men and the few in the cave, but Aragorn was under the distinct impression that the wargs that now hung back with no intention of going anywhere near the two swords incensed the trapped beasts the most. As it was, there were only four remaining in the cave, and three of hem bolted for the entrance in a flurry of fur and teeth, though they did not try to touch either Aragorn or Boromir.

Aragorn was hardly given the chance to realise their victory when Gimli started to shout at him-

'IT'S KILLING HIM! KILL _IT_!'

Aragorn's eyes widened with horror as he saw the one remaining warg clawing and struggling with what he recognised to be Legolas. He surged forward, his sword singing as it sliced through the air and drove into the warg's side. The beast yelped with its agony, and Aragorn and Gimli combined kicked it to its side before it could fall on Legolas.

He stood and stared down at his friend, who did not move. The Elf's face was contorted with obvious agony, his blue eyes screwed up tightly as though to combat some glaring light or other. But then Legolas drew a wet hand over his face, whipping away the slimy drool, and he opened his mouth, gasping as the air filled his lungs properly for what must have been the first time in a few minutes.

Legolas cast a glance at the worried face of his friend. He blinked for a time as though he had just awoken, and then a tired grin graced his face. 'You took your time.'

A relieved smile flashed Aragorn's teeth, a chuckle emitting from his throat. 'Yes, well, there was the whole matter of creeping through the tangle of sleeping dragons, and then swimming a lake infested with Krakens-'

'Don't talk to _him_ about lakes,' interjected Gimli, the smirk that graced his face audible in his voice.

'What?'

Legolas shot the Dwarf a warning glare. He still could not remember what had happened during his delusional state, but Gimli's tone was enough to set alarm bells chiming in his head.

'I won't ask,' Aragorn finally declared, observing Legolas' expression and that of the Dwarf. If he pried, he feared Gimli might just lose his life...

'However,' he continued with a somewhat authoritative tone, 'I _will_ ask about why you seem to be in so much pain, mellon nín.'

Legolas drew his eyes from Gimli and looked up into Aragorn's face instead, surprise raising his brow. But he instantly seemed to realise that this was the exact expression which would land him in trouble with his friend, and replaced it with complete innocence.

'I know not what you mean, Dúnadan,' Legolas responded smoothly, his eyes not wavering in the slightest.

'It is interesting, then,' Aragorn observed, 'that you appeared to be in such agony a minute ago, and are _still_ on the cave floor. Clearly, what I saw was a figment of my imagination, and you are lying here because you enjoy lounging about in the dirt. I apologise for my misconceptions.'

'The Elf's crippled himself,' the Dwarf informed Aragorn as he passed outside for the first time in what felt to him like an age, chuckling to himself.

Outrage graced Legolas' features at these words. 'I have _not-_'

'-Legolas, be quiet. How and where, Gimli?'

'Bash to the knee by a rock when we fell,' called a gruff voice from outside which fought a losing battle to conceal the amusement its owner clearly felt. 'Right leg. Knee's broken.'

Aragorn shook his head, surveying his Elven companion, whose eyes had donned a rather guilty look. In all the years he had known Legolas, the Elf had never changed. He was quite notorious for straining to avoid treatment for injuries. Some said it was because he thought he was hardier than anyone else, thus not requiring aid. Others thought it was just simple stubbornness. However, Aragorn harboured a completely different notion: that Legolas feared pain, hence avoided healers. He would not submit himself to allowing others to touch injuries he sustained, because Legolas' hurts tended to be rather painful; never was it the easy matter of stitching a small cut – it would be a deep laceration. It was simply bad luck on Legolas' part, he reflected with amusement, that he had become best friends with a healer.

'Are you going to change your story now, Legolas?'

The Elf heaved a sigh, rubbing the back of his neck. He clearly did not want Aragorn to examine his injury, but now he had been caught out, he had no hole to hide in. 'Can it not just be left alone to deal with itself?' he asked, though his tone held no real commitment; he had lost, and he knew it.

'Come on,' Aragorn prodded gently. He offered Legolas a hand. The Elf eyed it, still weighing out the possibilities of jumping up and bolting as fast as he was able. When he came to his senses and realised he would not be running anywhere for a while, he grudgingly extended his arm and allowed Aragorn to help him sit up.

'Now,' said the Ranger, taking on the precise tone and mannerism of the typical healer Legolas so detested, 'let us examine this little malady of yours, fiddle around with it a bit, and reposition the bone, shall we?'

Legolas nearly lurched away from the Ranger at his words, and it was only Aragorn's sharp reflexes which allowed him to grab the arm of his friend and keep him there. 'Stille nu, mellon nín! I was jesting!'

'_Jesting_?' the Elf exclaimed incredulously, barely concealed panic ringing in his voice. 'Like all healers, you have a very twisted sense of humour!'

'I apologise,' said Aragorn sincerely, eyes level with Legolas'. 'I will do nothing deliberate to hurt you – I haven't done so before, have I? I have nothing with me, so all I wish to do is look. Please, mellon nín: trust me.'

Legolas grudgingly sat back down, eyeing his friend as he lifted the Elf's trouser leg to examine his knee. But a grin slowly crept across his face as it dawned on him just how he could get his revenge...

'Shall I tell a tale to pass the time?'

Aragorn scrutinised the Elf's suddenly very innocent face at this – he had heard the artificial sweetness in the archer's tone, and he had the distinct impression that he should be very wary.

'What does this "tale" of yours entail?' he asked cautiously. He knew Legolas too well to pass off the seemingly innocent proposal as being what it was meant to sound like.

'Oh, nothing too heavy – just a small story I know about a young Ranger, a _lot _of beer, a girl, and the young man in question awakening next morning to find his clothes all missing.'

* * *

Ah ... and there we have it, people! I hope you all enjoyed it sighs again contentedly.

I'd just like to say many, _many_ thanks to all you wonderful reviewers; I love you all, and I just hope you like the rest of my stuff, too... Let's see: Assassin's Gift, the _sequel_ to Assassin's Gift yes, I have already started writing it, and no, I haven't finished 'Gift yet. I've done that little one shot for Pirates of the Caribbean that's been poking the inside of my brain, trying so very hard to get itself written - I laughed at the ending, though...

Anyway, this li'l ol' English girl's going to go and do her - er- English ... yeah. Oscar Wilde, we love you!

Thank you all again,

Gollum's Fish


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